"Do you do brunch? I bet you'd hate brunch with me," she continues, undeterred by my lack of engagement. She tilts her head, her sunglasses glinting in the dying light. "It involves a lot of mimosas and complaining about millennials. And avocado toast. You strike me as a man who despises avocado toast. Am I right?"
I don't answer, not even to ask her what the fuck is avocado toast. Because I don't care. I watch her bring the glass of champagne to her plump lips and take a sip as if the whole damn world isn't watching. As if her very existence isn't a constant source of tension in my perfectly ordered universe. She's too carefree, too alive.
Too goddamn undeniably sexy.
"The photos are blowing up, Rafe," she says casually. She takes out her phone, scrolling through her feed, a small, triumphant smile on her face. "If everything goes as planned, we'll be Italy's hottest couple by sundown. The engagement rate is insane. I mean, crazy insane! We've even broken all my previous records."
"And what about tomorrow? What'll we be then?"
She shrugs. "Tomorrow? You'll still look like you could kill someone in a suit and get away with it. Because you can. And I'll still look like I could tweet about it, and probably make it trend globally. Because I can. We're a perfectly balanced partnership of crime and glamour, wouldn't you agree?"
I scowl at her. "This is all a joke to you, isn't it? You seem to be enjoying this nonsense."
She might see this as a game, but it's far from it. The lines between a celebrity and a target are blurred. And she's blurring them further with every post.
She tilts her head, a slight smile playing on her lips. "Followers like the mystery. But they love the romance. It's human nature. People want to believe in love stories, even fake ones. Especially fake ones, the ones that hint at danger and forbidden desire."
"I'm not interested in what they want," I say. "I'm interested in their distraction. Their eventual forgetfulness. I need them to move on, to find a new fascination."
"Of course, you're not interested in their love fantasies. But you're interested in saving your business relationships. And right now, thanks to me, you're less of a liability and more of a boyfriend with good bone structure. It works for both of us. You just have to let go a little. RelaxMafiabae."
"Don't call me that," I snap.
"Loosen up, would you? It's working, just like you wanted. You'll soon be less of a sexy criminal mastermind and more of a… well-dressed internet boyfriend. Congratulations, your plan's working."
I should be furious with her and in a way, I am. My carefully constructed life, my reputation, is being reduced to a meme.
But I'm not.
I'm fascinated as much as I try to deny it.
She's not just surviving this; she's branding it and flying. She's taking the chaos I thrust upon her and turning it into something powerful, something that serves her, even as it serves me.
But she smiles like she's already won and that pisses me off. It's an arrogant, self-satisfied smile that I want to wipe from her face.
"You're good at the performance," I say, swirling the liquid in my glass. The ice clinks softly, the only sound breaking the tension. "You can convince them to believe anything you want because you're a natural manipulator."
"It's what I do," she says, shrugging. "It's how I built an online presence from a literal trailer park. From nothing. No rich parents to bankroll my dreams, no trust fund to fall back on. Just me, a cheap camera, and a lot of hustle." She holds my gaze, a challenge in hers, a raw vulnerability exposed. "Don't pretend you don't know all about that. You hinted at it before when I first arrived. At my humble beginnings. My hard-working single mother who depends on me now to keep her from ever having to go back to that kind of life. Do you think I enjoy this? This constant performance? This constant fear of losing it all every damn day and going back there? It's exhausting."
I'd only mentioned the lie about her parents before to exert control, to show her that her secrets weren't safe. Now, she throws it back at me like a weapon.
"I know everything about you that's relevant. Your past, your present. It serves my purpose. Everything serves a purpose in my world."
"Yourworld," she says, her voice dangerously soft. "Good to know my life serves your purpose as another pawn in your grand strategy."
"It's a mutually beneficial arrangement," I reply. "You survive. You regain your influence. And I become… less visible. A fair exchange you agreed to. A necessary evil, perhaps, for both of us."
She lowers her sunglasses, slowly, deliberately, revealing her eyes. "Oh, I understand. I understand the only way out of this is through it. And the more convincing we are, the safer I am. And the more I control the narrative, the more power I have. It's not just your game anymore. It's ours. And I'm playing to win."
She's challenging me.
And I'm slowly losing control of her much as I hate to admit it.
Later that night, I see the next photo on her profile. A mirror selfie. Her face is perfect, eyes heavy-lidded from red wine and a hint of sin. And in the background, blurry but unmistakable, I'm shirtless, adjusting my watch, a fleeting moment of vulnerability captured and broadcast to the world. My back's to the camera, but the angle, the setting, it's intimate.
Too intimate.
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